It feels like I’ve been sitting on the sideline in my own life.
a listening witness of all things,
mostly out of my control, I’m not crying rivers’ but I just believe ,
I’m so over suffering or letting my suffering win.
kindness sister Krissy
-
I found an old guitar clip but I couldn’t find my pen
words started pouring out just when I dug my heels in,
sitting my old chair pass down a generation,
words that slip
age after age
winter after winter,
horns are blowing,
drifting me back
where God calls the roll,
“to be absent in the body, to be present with the Lord”,
please tell everybody – when God calls the roll
I’ll be down here praying, working
keep those old sayings,
loving my neighbor like everybody should
holding my little darlings,
telling them with goodness
kindness flows like river
patience grows like olive branches, out on the hill
God watches over us
brooding over those old hens
I’ll be
tending to the gardens of life
when God calls the roll
kindness sister Krissy
-
Smoke in slow motion
quiet eyes soaking in the juices
here we are, in snap shot
mounted, suppressed my spirit into a squirt of a lens
reconstructing my soul to water
drinking from the wells that never run dry
walking on the rivers,
smile deeply in the face of adversity,
my soul makes human
makes me believe, there’s still good left in the world
has me thinking – I am machine trapped in its blood
where I bleed out all the colors of all the other humans
our only desire, let out our souls- out and be free
where I escape to be made in the southern warmth and sunshine
hold back evil of this time,
the soul of the prophets’
priestess and people drink down a sad song
blood on the trees , blood in our veins
blood and it rains – making our souls
come alive in all its pain, in all its darkness
damaged and wounded- x-master, x-slave
x-preacher, x-teacher, x-leader
x-destination, sooner or later
we gotta let our souls… if only,
a little while…
kindness sister Krissy
-
Let it be love, and let love be…
kindness sister Krissy
-
Photo by Simon Matzinger on Pexels.com In many ways we dream almost golden, the thorns that might arise breaking the nightfall. beyond the need of intelligence or intellect. A flower unveiling petal by petal, knowingly, the day awaits us to the sweet looming light,
Soft timid blooming- press
turning the world around in a spec
that it is the earth’s kindness as she brings
icy lakes, black and white snow
mud piles on the road
journey attending,
as we go …
kindness sister Krissy
-
Photo by Wendy van Zyl on Pexels.com It feels as if I am a cork bottle, on the blue wide open sea. Good things floating all around me. Why is it? Am I not floating? I have no control on which way the wind blows or the course my life seems to be…
but I do appreciate calming tidal waves, bouncing, boisterous spiced aromas drifting.
There’s a longing, to never be alone, another to one to be found hiding. In arms of something called home, something called -ones’ own.
Virtuous finding,
kindness sister Krissy
-
Photo by Ivan Bertolazzi on Pexels.com Dear writers’ burnout, I’ve stepped lightly under your thumb. Ghastly, recording -jet-lag, blistered-sketched. Riding on fumes alone
alarming ping, the hum, the blow-
singed by the leak of my own.
Habitual crawling towards more white-paper,
the rugged red/table-legs of fire,
I no longer sit down- while oceans are bleeding
I no longer stroke black and white keys,
I no longer dig my heels into my wounds- so I let them…
I no longer key-up the engine
I can’t feel the motor-less hum
In that way, I play the frolicking multi colored peacock
feathering a pretentious prance.
In that way, I am a fool, foolishly
chewing up words/undigested at the red table
Come dine,
sit with me, til the smoke has cleared
and there will be words to write/mountains to climb
and there will be more…
I pray, that my hour of darkness does not cast her shadow
I pray, that you and I find a simple answer
I pray, your stay is not prolonged
In this note you’ll find your bags,
P.S. I’ve kept my pen.
kindness sister, Krissy
-
while today is today, my mind might as well be a someday kinda brain, with all its’ trash-talking, ideas that be a load of crap in the morning, wannabe- hoping that its gonna be , and by then
I’m standing outside on checkered white curb,
with a muddy puddles of water
one-inch from my brown good-will suit.
On my way to the rest of my life
and a dark blue Sudan drives by
splashes rounds and rounds of puddles onto my good-clothes.
Now I’m heading home- telling myself
well’-there’s always tomorrow. 🙂
kindness sister Krissy
-
Photo by Renato Abati on Pexels.com Sometimes I’m just a girl, walking into a book store. Swimming in the minds of other writers- ah that’s life! We’re all a little crazy or maybe it’s just me, I can never find the exit-sign in those places. So I stay until almost closing, get a sense -long body lines come out of nowhere, and then there’s another book that catches my eye – I sniff first, tucking in the lastest cut-timber, ah Lanston Huges, The Negro Mother “Children I come back today, to tell you of the long dark way, that I had to climb, that I had to know”…
I move on: Oscar Wilde hitting me the face, The Ballad Reading Gaol “That fellows got to swing” I skip along the lines, chewing -sweetness and everything in between.
“Some love too little
Some love too long
Some do the deed with many tears
And some without a sigh:
For each man kills the thing he loves; yet each man does not die.”
I look up for a minute, rub the cover of the book, gently place it back on the shelf. I wonder about book owners, are they like me? Do they melt? Do their eyes sparkle in delight of books? I know there are many parts of owning books. Selling books, books on display, one day I might know these operations but for now, it is my own personal luxury.
P.S. I always spend $50.00 plus in bookstores, I say its worth it.
signing off Kindness sis. Krissy
-
Hello, world, where the sun rises and falls against the backs of those in detention camps, where the mothers’ run to collect their children, catching tears, wrecking traps/wrecking balls of thunderous multitudes
oh the dream, the crashing and burned American Dream…
echoing, thirsty prayers to our people. prayers that run amuck, prayers that I thought, got to be stuck, at the bottom of “all God’s Children need shoes” Need : To be home, need to be wanted, need to be held by the tired arms’ of those who’ bleed on repetitive cycles – women, without the gag- women who would gladly bleed for their children,
women who’ve tasted grief, by the kiss of morning, swallowed by the beautiful dirt of the afternoon, where I met a South African’ woman she’d come to work with me but she’d had not a smile to wear. Said she didn’t remember how to properly put it on across the slash she’d call lips.
Said it wouldn’t be right after all the murderous-screams’ and still she couldn’t press out the stain of devastation in the hems and it seems- that kind of hatred. Dwarfs countries, I know this because in capitalism- I’ve heard my great grandfather’s stories about our own…
Old man Jack was a slave sent over on a Nigerian slave ship- he too, endure the great and terrible passage, Old Man Jack was a man – the meanest of those who refuse to be broken, Said he was a man, before the Americas’- and that his master could beat him all he wants, but after the great sun went down, Old Man Jack still refused to work.
And when his master died, Old man, Jack became free. He settled down in the mountains he married a Native American(Blackfoot) woman, started drinking real-heavy like and froze to death in the snow. We’d soon move to El Paso, Del Rio, then on to Liberty and then onto San Antonio where my grandmother’s father, would orally pass down the story of Old Man Jack -the meanest man we know.
kindness sis. Krissy (original family photo )
Krissy Mosley Ministries 